In the dream he still knelt upon the cool stone floor, but around him lay a bright meadow of limitless size. The lush green valley shimmered in honeyed light. The light itself seemed to emanate from no single source, but rather hung over the meadow like a golden mist.

The air smelled of pine and the lighter fragrance of sweet grass. Overhead the sky formed an arc of delicate blue iridescence which fairly rippled with subtle shades of changing color, yet appeared always the same. No sun roamed the sky, but the heavens, as the whole of the valley, seemed charged with light. A crystal brook burbled close by, joyfully offering up its music to his ears. The water seemed alive as it splashed and danced along, sliding over the smooth, round stones.

An air of peace breathed over the scene, and Quentin felt a surge of joy spring up like a fountain inside him. His heart tugged within him, as if struggling to break free and soar aloft on light wings of happiness.

The voice he had heard before called him again, saying, “Quentin, do you know me?”

Quentin looked around somewhat fearfully. He saw no one nearby who might be speaking to him; he was utterly alone. But the voice continued.

“In the still of the night you have heard my voice, and in the depths of your heart you have sought my face. Though you searched for me in unholy temples I cast you not aside.”

Quentin shuddered and asked in a small voice, “Who are you? Tell me that I may know you.”

“I am the Maker, the One, Most High. The gods themselves tremble in my presence. They are shadows, faint mists tossed on the breeze and dispersed. I alone am worthy of your devotion.”

As the voice spoke Quentin realized he had heard it many times before, or had so longed to hear-in the dark of his temple cell when he cried out alone. He knew it, though he had never heard it this clearly, this distinctly before.

“Oh, Most High, let your servant see you,” Quentin pleaded. Instantly the peaceful meadow was awash in a brilliant white light and Quentin threw his arm across his face.

When he again dared to peer beneath his arm he saw the shimmering form of a man standing before him.

The man stood tall, with wide shoulders, rather young, but his features bore the stamp of a wise, seasoned leader. The man’s form seemed to waver in Quentin’s gaze as if he were seeing a reflection in water. The man appeared solid enough, but his outline grew fuzzy at the edges as if made of focused beams of living light, or clothed in an aura of rainbow-like luminescence.

But his face held Quentin’s attention. The Man of Light’s eyes gleamed like hot coals and his face shined with the radiance of glowing bronze. Quentin could not remove his gaze from the dark, fathomless depths of the man’s burning eyes. They held his in a sort of lover’s embrace: strong, yet gentle; commanding, yet yielding. Hunger of a kind Quentin could not name burned out from those eyes and Quentin felt afraid for presuming to exist within the sphere of the radiant being’s sight.

“Have no fear,” said the man. The tone was unspeakably gentle. “Long have I had my hand on you and upheld you. Look on me and know in your heart that I am your friend.”

Quentin did as he was bid and experienced a sudden rush of recognition, as if he had just met a close friend or a brother who had been long absent. His eyes filled with tears.

“Please, I am not worthy…”

“My touch will cleanse you,” said the Man of Light.

Quentin felt a warmth upon his forehead where the man placed two fingertips. The shame vanished as the warmth spread throughout his body. He wanted to leap, to sing, to dance before the Man of Light who stood over him.

“You seek a blessing,” said the Man of Light. “You have but to name it.”

Quentin tried to make the words come, but they would not. “I know not how to ask for this blessing… Though I know in my heart that I need it.”

“Then we will ask your heart to reveal what lies within.”

A sound of anguish and sorrow such as Quentin had never heard ripped from his own throat. It was as if a stopper had been removed from a jar and the contents poured out upon the ground in a sudden flood.

The cry ended as suddenly as it began, though for a moment it lingered in the air as it faded. Quentin blinked in amazement, shocked by the intensity of his own feelings-for that was what it was, the raw, unspoken emotions wrenched from his heart.

“Your heart is troubled about a great many things,” said the Man of Light. “You cry out for your friends. You fear what may happen to them if you are not with them. You seek the assurance of success in rescuing your King from the hold of the evil one.”

Quentin nodded dumbly; these were his feelings of the last few days.

“But more than this you seek higher things: wisdom and truth. You would know if there are true gods which men may pray to who will hear their prayers.”

It was true. All the long nights alone in his temple cell, the anguished cries of longing came back to him.

“Quentin.” The Man of Light stretched out a broad, open hand to him. “My ways are wisdom, and my words are truth. Seek them and your path will know no fear. Seek me and you will find life.”

“You ask a blessing-I will give you this: Your arm will be righteousness and your hand justice. Though you grow weary and walk in darkness, fear nothing. I will be your strength and the light at your feet. I will be your comforter and guide; forsake me not and I will give you peace forever.”

Quentin, looking deeply into the Man of Light’s eyes, felt himself falling into the limitless void of time-as if through the dark reaches of starless night. He saw, not through his own eyes, but through the eyes of the god, the orderly march of the ages, time stretching out past and future in front of him in an unbroken line.

Then he saw a man he seemed to recognize: a knight. He was arrayed for battle and his armor blazed as if made from a single diamond; he carried a sword which burned with a hungry flame, and a shield which shone with a cool radiance, scattering light like a prism.

The knight spoke and raised his sword and the darkness retreated before him. Then the knight, with a mighty heave, flung the sword into the air where it spun, throwing off tongues of fire which filled the sky.

When the knight turned again Quentin recognized with a shock that the knight was himself-older and stronger, but himself.

“I am Lord of All,” said the voice, “Maker of all things.” Then the vision faded and Quentin was once again staring into the Man of Light’s eyes. But now he knew them to be the eyes of the god himself, whose voice he had heard in the night, who had called him by name.

“Quentin, will you follow me?” he asked gently.

Quentin, bursting with contending emotions, threw himself at the Man of Light’s feet and touched them with his hands. A current of living energy flowed through him and he felt stronger, wiser, more sure than ever before in his life. He felt as if he had touched the source of life itself.

“I will follow,” said Quentin, his voice small and uncertain.

“Then rise. You have received your blessing.”

When Quentin came to himself he was lying on his side in the dark. A single candle burned in its shallow bowl. Before him the fountain splashed; the sound made the chamber seem empty. Quentin raised his head to look around and saw that he was alone.

As he got up to leave the inner room he noticed that his right arm and hand tingled with a peculiar prickly sensation: both hot and cold at the same time. He paused to rub them and then went out.